


Conduit

by thelongcon (rainer76)



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M, Spoilers for 3x15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/thelongcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl's temper always was a little on the wild side - he's calmed down since joining Rick's group - but some voices speak louder than others, and some stay with you no matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conduit

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously this is going to be jossed badly in less than a week - *shrugs* - it's too melodramatic to be anywhere close to the mark but here goes, because Rick and Daryl seems to be my drug of choice.

He can’t remember his momma’s voice.  Daryl has no idea what her last words were – screams, he imagines – when those yellow flames licked over the side of the bed and spread across the coverlet, insidious and warm.  If his Ma was lucky – and Daryl sincerely hopes she was lucky – then maybe the smoke got her before the fire did.  Her voice was ruined by cigarettes; cheap whiskey, but then again that might be a fallacy – that might be Daryl filling in the blank spots - of memories that aren’t so much forgotten but faded out of vibrancy.  He has an _idea_ of who she was and what she sounded like, but mostly, his Ma is ash, a residual husk where the reality of her burnt out.

She was a deceptive drunk, that much Daryl _does_ recall; Ma couldn’t drive for shit when she was sober, hands shaking, vision blurred, the truck weaving all over the damn road, but give her a shot of Jack and she was like a fucking homing pigeon, straight as an arrow – touch her nose, balance on a line, tap her head and rub her tummy simultaneously, all of that jazz when the police pulled her over.  Her words were clipped - Momma might have been three sheets to the wind but you wouldn’t know it to listen - she didn’t slur her words when inebriated, her pronunciation fit for a Queen.  She was a deceptive drunk - a functional alcoholic – but dead sober, Ma was a ruin. 

Some people are like that.

He didn’t mean to forget her voice; it just happened over time, Dad was another story. Daryl learnt to tune his voice out even when he was alive, shouted insults falling on deaf ears, but dad compensated, exchanged spoken words for the written language instead – sharp exclamation points like stab wounds, dashes that slashed across Daryl’s skin…three dots to signify the pause, the _anticipation_ , and then a question mark hooked over his ribcage, carved into his hip - as an adult, Daryl’s body is a palimpsest of written messages, of anger, resentment, cruelty, inked into his flesh.  Aggressively, Daryl doesn’t remember his father’s voice, same as he can’t recall his mother’s. Merle though, his cadence, his sly insults, have never left Daryl’s mind.

He hears Merle’s voice clearly in sleep, hell, even in delirium has he heard him.  It seems to Daryl that sometimes his brother’s voice is louder than his own.  Daryl welcomes it, lets it drive him onward; it doesn’t pull any punches, Merle’s voice pisses Daryl off and simultaneously keeps him alive, as effective as his brother ever did. He spent almost two years thinking he’d never hear Merle from a distance again, and then suddenly, his brother was there, in the heart of Woodbury.  Daryl didn’t get cut off from the others when they rescued Glenn and Maggie, he covered their retreat until Rick slipped over the wall, nor was he lost or ambushed like he said – truth is – Daryl got caught because it was the easiest way to find Merle.  And he wasn’t leaving Woodbury without his brother.

Daryl gasps, eyes squeezed shut, hears his own voice say:   _I just want my brother back._

_Bawlin’ like a baby, Merle whispers.  Mmhhmm._

It’s true.  Daryl’s crying like a kid cries, unashamed and with his entire body, knees curled inward, each breath slicing his throat apart.  Daryl’s right hand is slick with Merle’s blood.  The ground’s unforgiving under his spine and he thinks it’s worse like this – I want my brother back – only for it to last less than a week.

_You gonna lie in the dirt like a zombie kebab all day long?  A one-stop feed for y’all deadly hungers?  Mmmhmm, my brother’s finger-lickin’ good.  Get up, yer pussy, on yer feet._

Daryl rolls, he gathers his knees under him, forehead on the ground, both palms braced on the earth.  He chokes, wipes away the snot and the tears, and feels himself go still, listening.  There’s a long shadow stretched to the left of him that Daryl avoids looking at.

The sun reflects off the gauntlet, bright ripples of light play on the periphery of his vision.

“Ain’t she a beauty?” Merle had said, and turned his stump to the left, to the right, showing the blade off to all angles.  He grinned with a mouthful of yellow teeth, humour all bite.  “Scratching my ass is a big problem though.  Officer Friendly, you wanna help me with that?”  Rick had stared at Merle, expression as animated as one of the zombies outside, carefully, Daryl had edged between them.  Merle always stuck with him, even when he didn’t, and Daryl always had his back, even when he brought Merle into a house full of haters, each of them gunning for Merle’s blood.  “S’okay there, baby brother,” Merle had stressed, and put his good hand on Daryl’s shoulder.   “The Sherriff and me, we’re just breaking the ice, getting to know one another all friendly like.”

Here and now, Daryl's fingers clench into the grass. He pushes off, stumbles upright like a newborn colt.  Bury him, he thinks disjointedly, or burn the whole place down?  Merle always had a thing for flames, (he said he got it from his momma) and truth is, the Governor will be coming for the prison at any moment. 

Daryl might not have the time to spare, to dig a hole in the ground, but he won’t leave Merle to be pecked at by the ravens or worse.  “Fire then,” he mumbles.

_Just like ma…  You know we should have left the prison when we had the chance, don’t you, baby bro?  Bringing me back to those cellblocks?  Well hell, you might not like the sound of it, and it might taste like **shit** going down, but we both know that story would end in one way._

There’s more than one fresh body sprawled on the ground.  The Governor doesn’t bury his dead men, uncaring he leaves them to rot in the open.  The only consideration he has is a single bullet wound to the forehead, the Governor did that – or at least – he did that for everyone present except for Merle, who he let turn, so Daryl could find him. 

_Maybe so, but he ain’t the only snake in a field of grass._

Fire then, Daryl repeats to himself, and sets about the task slowly, his limbs still shaking.

_Keep it on the quiet, he said, just a select few.  He knew what I was going to do.  Heck, he was **counting** on it, and I bet you all the tea in China he’s back in the prison swearing up and down that he’s changed his mind.  That what he did was wrong.  Wrong.  Now that I’ve gone ahead and done his dirty work for him it’s all wrong, and he has the luxury to change his mind and be the hero because of it.  Here’s the thing, baby brother, I might be a touch impetuous, do things without knowing why I do them, but Officer Friendly, he’s the calculated type, all planned out, he knows exactly what he’s doing and **why** he’s doing it, and there’s only one reason he included me in that ‘inner circle’.  Two birds with one stone, me and Michonne, he wanted me dead from the outset._

“Michonne’s alive.”

_I let her go.  ‘Cos she was right, Rick changed his mind – just like you and I knew he would – and I snatched her up anyway, just like Rick knew **I** would; that’s the only reason he told me in the first place.  Either way I was screwed.  Deliver Michonne - try to save the prison - and I’ve gone against what the group, what Rick, now wanted.  Still the bad guy, ain’t I?  My ‘one strike and you’re out’ token used up.   Can’t go back like that, even if the Governor was being ridgy-didge about the deal.  Let her go - ‘cos you and I both know that’s what Rick would decide when everything was set in motion - and maybe you’d get it?  That I **tried** to do the right thing.  So l did, let her go, and I tried to salvage it by killing the Governor on my own.  But Rick?  I bet my left nut he had it all figured out from the get-go._

“Shuddup!”  The shout rings out across the field, echoes off the iron, startles the crows back by a few feet, they’re brazen though, and mostly unchallenged, dark eyes fixed on the fresh offerings as they hop in the dirt.  Daryl shakes his head, looks up at the sky where the clouds are scudding across the horizon.  “It’s not like that.  You don’t know him.”

_Oh, I know him, alright; we’ve known his type all our goddamn lives.  He did this – indirectly maybe – but don’t fool yourself, baby brother.  He knew me as well as I knew him, still wanna call him kin?_

“Why couldn’t you wait?  Why couldn’t you just wait for once in your goddamn life.”

Daryl can’t remember his mother’s last words, if she scolded him or told him to wash behind his ears, whatever his dad last said wasn’t worth remembering in the first place, but he remembers Merle’s last words, the way he spat on the ground contemptuously.  Do you even possess a pair of balls, little brother?  I mean, are they attached, do they belong to you?

And he remembers what he somehow forgot – that it was _Rick_ who handcuffed Merle to that rooftop to begin with – and it was Rick’s plan that Merle tried to implement.  There’s something wild building in his chest, hot as a fire and savage with grief.  He burns the building down to its cinders, to its withered out husk, then Daryl goes looking for Rick.

_***_

 

It’s Maggie who first sees the smoke, a dark smudge to the left, far off in the distance.  She watches through the binoculars for a minute, trying to judge wind direction, the likelihood of a wildfire.  “Carl, go get your dad.” 

The ring feels foreign on her finger; she turns it over, rotating it until the diamond is facing inward toward her palm, then clenches her hand into a fist, watching that distant fire ominously.  “Mags?” Rick calls from behind

Maggie jerks her chin toward the smoke.  “You thinking Daryl or the Governor?”

He takes the binoculars from her, bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes narrowed.  “Either way, I think I’ll take a look,” he says slowly

“You want company?”

“No, we’re better off if there’s someone here to work on the plan.  I’ll go.”  He hands the binoculars back to her, followed by a bar of chocolate.  Rick’s mouth twitches into a faint smile as Maggie stares at it in disbelief.  He nods toward her hand.  “Not much, I know, but it’s an engagement present, the best I could find at present.”

“Chocolate,” Maggie says faintly.  “Oh my god, that’s better than sex.”

“Really?  I guess Glenn’s doing it wrong.”  She laughs in response, eyes bright, and Rick startles, listening to the clear sound of it.  Maggie touches his forearm, lips brushing against the dark stubble of his cheek when she kisses him chastely.

“Bring them back.”

“I plan it.”

He takes one of the hatchbacks from their pool of cars, a shotgun resting in the well of the passenger seat, the Colt fully loaded. He feels clearer, like he’s clawed his way to the surface, Rick’s been buried alive since Shane turned against him, since T-Dog and Lori, the hits coming too quick to process.  Everything was slipping out of control from the farm onwards until Rick snapped, declared it a dictatorship and closed his fist tight, trying to hold on to everyone and everything, keep it all together under one word. Seven months when Rick’s spoken order was law, the group closing ranks around him, fighting to stay together, until they were more battle hardened than vets.  Seven hard months when Rick watched them, waiting for the dissent, for another Shane to emerge in their ranks, and none of them did, not once, they protected him until Rick could breathe again.  He kept them alive throughout the winter.  In return, his people gave Rick room, the space he needed to come back to himself, to unclench and _trust_ in people again.

Trust.  Powerful word that.  Michonne - especially now after all this mess - has it, if she’ll have them that is, if Rick hadn’t destroyed those fragile bonds entirely.  Merle…well,  Rick won’t say he’ll trust him outright, he’s more like a work in progress.

Tyreese and his sister – the timing was off – Rick wasn’t recovered, couldn’t bring himself to let anyone else into the group, people unknown, un vetoed - he did that with the prisoners and Lori died because of it, T-Dog too - but he regrets turning them away now, the same way he regrets letting Daryl go after Michonne and his brother alone.  Rick should have followed, let it be known he took responsibility for this – that he had some part to play in Merle’s actions – let Merle know this wasn’t a one-strike and you’re out kind of a world.  Second and third chances, Rick’s come to realise, are important when there’s a minimal population to choose from. 

Second and third chances, he’s come to realise, have been offered aplenty, even when the recipient wasn’t aware of it – even when they weren’t fit to recognise the gift for what it was.  His people, he thinks, he wouldn’t trade any of them for the world.

Merle’s problematic but he’s part of Daryl and Daryl’s part of the group - he’s part of Rick - engrained under his skin and entirely _necessary._   He can’t put it in words finer than that, can’t untangle the knot of dependency and need, of the unwavering support that’s kept Rick afloat.

They’ll work it out, he thinks grimly, Merle, Daryl, and himself, either way the Governor’s a bigger problem.

Rick’s close enough to smell the fire, the window of his car unwound to let the air in when Daryl steps out onto the road, stock-still and standing side on.  He’s black on black against a dark forest and Rick hits the brakes too hard, leaving jagged lines on the road, the rear-end of the car fishtailing before he straightens out. 

There’s blood and ash on Daryl’s face, splattered on his clothing, eyes narrowed into a predator’s cool stare.  Under that, his complexion seems shocky.  Pale. 

Rick steps out of the car, the engine ticking over quietly.   His eyes sweep the woods to either side, searching for zombies out of habit.  “Merle?”

Daryl swallows.  His hand clenches into a fist.  The crossbow Michonne gave him is riding low on his back, his left hand rests atop his bowie knife.  The insects, flourishing since the damn plague hit, hum loudly as a conduit, like standing under electric power lines.

“Dead.”

Rick tenses, his words drying up with a single proclamation.  They stare at one another.

Daryl had some bulk when they first met – not much but it was definitely there, rounder cheeks, the faintest hint of a beer belly – all of that was pared down after the first month on the road.  He’s corded muscle now and zero body fat, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and Rick sees the exact moment when Daryl shifts, the centre of his weight moving to the balls of his feet, eyes little more than slits.

“Easy,” Rick says, automatically.  “Daryl, hey.  Easy now.”

“Why couldn’t you make up your goddamn mind?” Daryl spits.  The fury sparks through his words like a charge, ignites the space between them.   “All of this ‘go ahead/hold up’ _bullshit!_  You need time to make a decision, then take the fucking time, but don’t hum and haw, don’t announce a decision then take it back.”  Daryl stalks forward, voice rising to a holler.  “Why’d you even tell Merle about the deal?  Why not Glenn, why not Maggie, why not the fucking _inner_ circle?  Why’d you tell my brother, you prick, when you knew what he was likely to do!”  He’s standing ten feet away, until suddenly, he’s not.  Front and centre, the emotion roiling off him like a wave, he plants both hands in the centre of Rick’s chest and _shoves,_ pushing him away.  Rick stumbles, feet tripping over each other.  Daryl follows, breath hot in his face.  “This what you wanted all along, huh?  _Huh_!  Merle dead?”

It’s been two years since Rick found Daryl on the opposite side of his gun, held steady within his eyeline – and he won’t draw on him now, _can’t_ draw on him now – he’s covered in Merle’s blood.

Rick, T-Dog, Glenn, Shane – they were all repetitive hitters – happy to bludgeon those zombies long past their permanent death.  Daryl never was.  Maybe it’s his choice of weapon, the crossbow, the knife, maybe it’s just who Daryl is, but he's a one-strike killer.

Once they’re down, he doesn’t waste energy trying to smear their brains into the earth.  He hits them and moves on, efficient, _quick,_ more deadly than half the group by a league.  Except now he’s splattered in gore – he hit and he _kept_ on hitting, long past the point of purpose.  That’s not calmness on his face – it’s not the cool calculation of a hunter – it’s raw emotion and anger, zeroed in on Rick like he’s a walking bullseye.  The only target in sight.

“Y’all just like Shane, like that other fucking lawman, plotting to kill people while keeping your appearance clean!”

It’s like a punch to the gut.  Rick’s vision sharpens, hands held low and in front of him.  He keeps his voice even, takes a stride backward until he’s braced against the vehicle.

“That’s grief talking, so I’ll let it slide.  But you need to listen to me, because I’m sorry, I’m so, truly, sorry.” 

And he is, not for Merle – Rick can’t bring himself to like the man, even in death – but he’s sorry for Daryl’s sake, he would have spared him the bleakness if he could.  Daryl doesn’t take apologies well, Rick notes, and ducks when Dixon swings at him.

He slips forward, pushing off the car and tackling the other man before Daryl can strike twice, or worse, draw his knife like their very first clash, they hit the asphalt hard enough to drive the air from both their lungs.  Rick scrambles, hooking his chin over Daryl’s shoulder, arms and legs wrapped around Daryl like a python.  It’s awkward, weirdly intimate.  It provides no leverage, no space to hit, clinging like a fucking limpet while Daryl curses a blue streak and arches under him.  Rick doesn’t mean to go all BJJ on him, but this close together means no one gets hit and he thinks darkly – half amused – that thank Christ there’s no one on the road watching.  Oddly enough, it looks more like they’re trying to fuck than strangle each other out.

Rick presses the side of his face hard against Daryl’s cheek, making sure the other man doesn’t head-butt or bite at him, and manages to get one elbow up, planted square on Daryl’s larynx.  Daryl snaps his chin down, growling low in his throat, and this close, Rick can see the tear tracks dried on his face, the ash smeared across his cheekbones.

He eases the pressure off warily, at a loss, no idea what to say or how to make it better, how to redirect Daryl’s fury, let it simmer down.  Rick’s out of practice.  He hasn’t fought with Daryl since those first few months, and the only thing he can think to speak, is the unbridled truth.

“Easy.  I wouldn’t do that; you _know_ I wouldn’t do that.  Not because it’s Merle – because it’s you – I wouldn’t do that to _you_.”

“Lemme go.”  Daryl’s face crumples, folds inward.  “Goddamn it, I said  _lemme go_!”

“Can’t.” 

Rick tried it once before – in all truth, it didn’t work out so well – he’s not keen for a repeat performance.

And as an aside, Rick thinks that might be half the problem right there, too many people have – let Daryl go, that is – and whatever reasons Merle had for leaving, whatever his intentions, he didn’t _trust_ his brother to protect his back.  He didn’t trust the group to pull together, close ranks and protect each other from the threat.  He went off to face Phillip, all of his henchmen, alone.  Back in the day, they had a description for that type of behaviour.

Suicide by cop.

The only law left is the law of the wild – where men like the Governor take charge – and that was the road Rick was meandering down, one careless step at a time.  “You said you knew I’d change my mind – why didn’t you speak up – say something, when you disagreed about Michonne?”

Daryl blinks hard, surprised at the question.  The tension in his arms loosens.  “’Cos, you needed to realise it yourself…that you ain’t like him.”   It wasn’t about not having the balls to say something – it was about knowing Rick, inside and out; people can holler loudly as they want, try to speak over the top of you, but certain words fall on deaf ears – Daryl’s daddy knew that - and the only thing left to do is beat that message into somebody’s skin or let them find their own two feet, in their own due time.

Daryl’s momma was neglectful, his daddy a thug, and he’s never heard either of their voices inside his own head, deaf to their lessons.  But Daryl lived his entire life with Merle’s monologues riding in his skull, and he thinks the last thing his brother ever said was brutally true – it’s time to grow up – listen to his own instincts.

“I’m not like the Governor?” Rick clarifies, and pushes upward, allowing daylight between them, giving space for Daryl to swing at him if necessary.  They’re both breathing harshly.  Shrewdly, he adds.  “Or I’m not like Shane?”  Plotting people’s deaths and trying to appear clean about it.

Daryl’s eyes narrow, he shoves hard enough to unseat Rick but doesn’t answer.

“You didn’t take Michonne.  You waited for me – you waited because you knew what I was going to do – even when I didn’t.  Merle should have waited, too.  We could have faced the Governor together, Daryl.  I’m sorry.  I am.  But I didn’t force Merle to do what he did.  You know that.  You trusted me to make the right call – and now I need you to trust me when I tell you I didn’t plan Merle’s death.  Not in the least.  That...that's on the Governor.”

That’s on Merle, Rick doesn’t say:  Merle who chose his own path – and he can spin shit into gold however he wants, but it doesn’t change the fact Merle’s path didn’t include Daryl.  Rick searches the other man’s face, looking for some sign that he’s _listening_ , that Merle didn’t shatter them apart in death more effectively than he ever did when alive.

“That’s the honest truth.  It’s not on me….  And your brother’s death, it sure as hell not on you…least of all you.”

“We’re all peachy clean,” Daryl mutters, voice rough as gravel.  He goes limp, the rage violent, quick as a storm, ebbing away.  He swipes a hand across his face tiredly, the shake in his arm barely noticeable.

Rick’s still crouched over him like a gargoyle – the same fierce protectiveness roiling through his blood – still as a stone.

They don’t have time for this – chatting in the dirt – but time’s the only mistress devoid of second chances.  Their ghosts lost to the past, the future falling within the strike of a second, a minute or two.  Rick always thought he would have _time_ to make things right with Lori – and if he’s learnt any lesson since then – then it’s ‘if you need to make things right, don’t hesitate, don't delay.

“You gonna help me kill him?” Rick asks, redundantly.

He wants to hear it, selfishly maybe, but he wants to be sure.  For better or worse, Daryl’s never swayed from his own decisions – from trying to find Sophia, to bugging everyone to accept his brother at the prison – from believing in Rick, choosing him over Shane and everyone else.  It’s another way of saying _Are you with me?_ and Rick breathes a little easier each time he hears the answer.

“Yeah,” Daryl says, voice hitching.  “Yeah, I’m gonna kill that sonofabitch.”

“There’s a queue,” Rick warns, and reaches out to touch his shoulder, fingers curling over muscle, sun kissed skin.  “You may have to share the killing between me and Michonne.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees.  “Not a problem.  I ain’t greedy.”

Rick squeezes his shoulder once, lets the silence fall between them, heavy as a cloak.

“You think it was suicide, don’t you, what Merle did?”

“I think he did his best.”  He meets Daryl’s eyes, voice neutral, and thinks about being greedy.  “I don’t think he liked sharing all that much to be honest…but I think, maybe, he did it for you.”

Daryl’s jaw works silently, he scrambles out from under Rick, butt sliding in the dirt until there’s a whole acre of space between them.  “C’mon then, time’s a wastin’.”

He puts his crossbow into the back seat of the car, never careless with it, and scrunches down in the shotgun position, knees braced against the dashboard.  Rick balances on his haunches on the road, then stands upright, looking down one side of the lane then the other.  His skin tingles where they made contact.  His heart still hammering.   Daryl stares straight ahead in the passenger seat, the emotion locked down tight.

“Yeah, time’s a wastin’,” Rick agrees slowly.  The Governor first, he decides, then Rick will steal whatever time Daryl has left.

 

 

 


End file.
